Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

this was a main component. She was a smart cookie and had created a successful model for other Catholic schools in the area.
    Etheridge waved his hand toward the door, trying to usher me out, but I wasn’t having any part of it. “Everyone will know soon. We’ll be issuing a release on our new regulations.” He tried to smile but was unsuccessful, something I noticed only happened around me. “So we’re done here.”
    I stood. “We’re really not.” I turned to Dwyer. “How can you do that? That can’t be … legal,” I spat out, for lack of a better word.
    “Alison,” Etheridge said, from behind me. “We’re done.”
    I looked into Dwyer’s beady eyes and decided that there was nothing there that was remotely Christian and turned on my heel to exit. Fran raised her eyes slightly above her monitor and gave me a look that said “I know.”
    Before I reached the doors to the hallway, I heard her mutter, “If only my son hadn’t decided on that masters, I’d be outta here already.” St. Thomas grants the students of all employees free tuition for undergraduate and graduate work, so I understood Fran’s conflict.
    I stepped out into the hallway, undecided about which way I wanted to turn. If I went right, I could hit Mary’s office and let it all out. But if I went left, I could head straight back to my office, pick up my briefcase and keys, and leave the premises before I did any damage.
    I went with option B.

Twenty-One
     
    I typed “WIMP” into my search engine and waited for the list to load.
    I hadn’t had the time, or the inclination, to read up on my captors prior to this moment, so in shock was I that I had been kidnapped and stuffed in a basement with a wine cellar to rival the best that many New York City restaurants had to offer. But now, back from school—AWOL, so to speak—and still steaming about Father Dwyer and his program of liturgical female alienation at St. Thomas, I decided to turn my attention to finding out just what Lydia Wilmott, creepy Elaine, and no-balls Clark had up their sleeves. And why.
    I was sitting outside under the shade of my patio umbrella, my computer on my lap. I thought WIMP was so subversive that it didn’t even occur to me to type in www.wimp.org but that was their Web site address, believe it or not. That was easy, I thought. The WIMP site’s serene and lavender-screened home page belied the group’s ugly tactics. Music began playing as a beautiful hyacinth filled the page, lulling me into a dream state for a second. There were several headers that you could click on, including one that said “Who We Are,” which I scrolled over to. Who are you? is exactly what I wanted to know. But the page was disappointingly devoid of any concrete information.
     
Who we are is a group of concerned citizens, some of us victims of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse ourselves. Others of us are reformed abusers …
    … and now I knew who Clark was and which category he fell into … 
     
… who have chosen to live our lives on a path of repentance to atone for the things we’ve done. Still others are just concerned bystanders, hoping that nobody abuses anyone. EVER. AGAIN.
     … Pick yourself up. Get up again. Let WIMP help.
    Nowhere on the site was there mention of Lydia, Elaine, or Clark, not that I really expected they would publish their names. It was all very generic and very soothing and very reassuring. Nowhere did it mention that if they even suspected you were a victim, they would bind your hands and feet, put duct tape over your mouth and a hood over your head. It all seemed very … voluntary. “ If you wanted help …” and “ If you had had enough …” They didn’t list a location at which to seek help, which didn’t surprise me. What were they going to write? “To donate, visit Lydia’s basement”?
    In order to get help, interested parties could send an e-mail to the site and would receive contact from a WIMP volunteer. I wondered if that meant the same treatment I had received.
    I closed the computer. The whole thing was extremely shady and I wondered how many women actually availed themselves of WIMP’s services, which included boarding at a local safe house (once again, Lydia’s basement?), counseling services, and loans to relocate and “start anew.” I put my computer under my arm and started off for Jane’s house, deciding that I needed more information.
    Jane and her partner, Kathy, were both home,